Audit No D2017SP-000157000 - Stargate Program
by en-shaedn
Summary: Every program in the Department of Defense gets an audit eventually. Even the ones with aliens.
1. Chapter 1

I doodled some more on my notepad as my boss kept talking. They were some dang good doodles, if I say so myself: a few horses and a cartoon crocodile coexisted on some kind of rocky cliff, and an abstract something or other slowly crawled its way up the side of the page. Lana had opened the supply cupboard for me last week and I had used the opportunity to snag a few notebooks while I had the chance; billions upon billions of dollars spent in the Department of Defense, but their Inspector General employees could only occasionally access office supplies. Amazing. The pens were apparently pretty cool though. I had my doubts. Supposedly, they're built to be able to serve as an emergency tracheotomy instrument, if needed, and write a mile, and yadda yadda. Mostly they write like you're on the verge of inkless-ness; I had never stabbed anyone in the throat with them to find out if they worked as advertised. I wondered how the contractor who sold them would product test that kind of thing. I wondered if the contractor sold their general inability to write as preserving ink. That would appeal to an agency against fraud, waste and abuse. Of course, the pens don't write properly, and no one uses them. That's government contracting for you. I always pick up a box of gel pens from Walmart to write with, but I had forgotten to grab them on my way out this morning.

My boss stopped talking, and I stopped thinking vaguely about pens and started speaking to the room at large, reading off my newly decorated notepad. Updates on what the division was doing (energy and weapons system contracting, as had been the case for the last two years); how the high profile Congressional request was going (badly, because SOCOM dragged their heels past three different milestones and then claimed that everything in the report was classified under FOIA exemptions 2, 4, 5, 7, and 9, which was ridiculous, since only 7 could MAYBE apply and there weren't even any wells involved – the lawyers were duking that one out, and were happy to do it); and an update on how many employees we had and whether we would meet the employee cap by the end of the fiscal year (no). The usual.

My boss and I had gone first in this briefing, and it took another half hour for all the agency heads to finish briefing the Acting IG. Still not sure why he hadn't been made the official IG; Inspectors General are usually exempt from the political maneuvering that goes on at the upper levels of government, so he should have been confirmed when the new President took office. He wasn't, unfortunately. I liked the guy. He was solid.

When he dismissed us, I moved to close my book and head out the door to meet my buddy Doug in DCIS, who had cheerfully informed the table this morning that DCIS netted another three admirals last week in the Glenn Defense case. The bastard. I didn't get very far before Ms. Carmichael, my boss, called my name in that polished tone of hers. You never quite realize how your name sounds until someone like her says it.

"Jordan," she said, and I got an awful feeling about my future prospects of not being assigned to a stupid project, "Mr. Far needs to speak with you." Yeah. Okay. I had no context for the IG wanting to talk to me; therefore, it was probably bad. Still, that's life. Ms. Carmichael pulled me over to Mr. Far, who had not left his seat, and we did that thing that you do with someone to whom you've spoken but you don't know well: said hi, talked about his favorite college basketball team, all that. Ms. Carmichael left. Alright then. That was weird; usually there's more than one person around when you meet with someone like the IG. It's a protocol thing.

"Jordan- Can I call you Jordan? – Jordan, there's an audit that's come up the chain to us, and it's classified as far as it goes. You're TS-SCI certified, correct?" He wouldn't ask if he didn't already know I had a security clearance, and you don't get as high as I did around here without one, so I nodded and waited for him to continue. "This is probably going to be the biggest audit of your career." Aren't they all? "Have you been on any of our Afghanistan tours, or to Qatar?"

"Yes sir. I did four deployments to Afghanistan, with our contingency operations division, and two to Qatar. That was when I was a project manager though, so it's been a few years. Is this audit over there?" If so, we had auditors permanently stationed there, so I didn't know why he would need me to go; it might be stepping on some toes. The DoD IG wasn't as territorial as the military we oversaw, but we still had our pride.

"No. In fact, you'll be going to Colorado Springs. But I ask because there's the same level of risk or more involved as in Afghanistan, and the same requirements for civilians in the case of emergencies." I stared at him.

"In Colorado Springs? What the- What do they have up in Peterson that's so dangerous?" It could be Schriever AFB, I supposed, but I doubt it. Most everything we audit of any interest in Colorado Springs is up in Peterson. NORAD and USNORTHCOM had a significant presence up in Cheyenne Mountain, and the Army ran things out of Carson, but Peterson was the big one up there.

"You'll be briefed when you get up there, and it's Cheyenne Mountain. I know we don't usually do things this way, but Colonel Morrison informs me that you're pretty flexible. And open minded. You'll need both. Before I send you though, I need to know that you're willing to accept the danger; you'll be eligible for hazard pay for as long as it takes."

Well. Who was I to say no to adventure? Or at least hazard pay.

I returned to my office, discarded my notepad on the desk next to my plants, stuck my access card in my laptop, and waited for it to load the generic lock screen. I pulled up the Cheyenne Mountain base site, and opened a lync screen. Our office skype wasn't the best, but since the floor was secure and we weren't supposed to have our phones, it would have to do; I sent good morning messages to a few of my team, and requested status updates on our projects. The DLA audit was coming along, the ESPC audit was floundering, and the EPA audit was a hot mess. So no change from yesterday. The NORAD site wasn't loading on chrome, so I grimaced, groaned, and pulled up Explorer. Government employees must be some of the last people in the world that use the stupid thing for anything other than downloading another browser.

While I waited for the screen to load, Christopher walked into my office. With his stupid smart water. I glared at him, not that he paid attention.

"I see you brought your stupid water today. Like always."

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. How's the young person today? Cheerful as ever?" Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Morrison was a big ball of sunshine wrapped up in a six-foot frame, dark skin, and that ugly Army uniform. He was several years older than me, and most of our conversations were-

"Well, some of us aren't mere inches away from dying, or contracting senility, so I'm pretty good old man." I grinned at him. I am incapable of being annoyed, angry, or aggravated at Christopher.

"You're inches away from death, you keep talking like that."

"I bet I could take you." He eyed me doubtfully. "Fine. I bet I could push you in front of oncoming traffic and make it look like an accident."

He rolled his eyes, and scoffed, and mimed being stabbed through the heart. All very theatrical. "If I die, I'm haunting you until you feel bad," he threatened cheerfully.

"You'll be around a while, then. I bet you'll get bored."

"Nah, you'll have feelings one day. They're an incurable disease. I have faith you will be infected. Either that or you're an alien and you'll live forever, and that would be interesting, so. You know." He gave me a fist bump, and then, instead of leaving after our morning banter, he closed the door and sprawled in one of my guest chairs. I stared at him.

"This is about that audit, right? The one you told Far I would be good for." I abandoned the NORAD site, because here was a much more useful source. Also, it wasn't loading, because government websites suck. "What is it? Can you tell me?"

Christopher fiddled with the cap on his smart water. "Look," he said, "I was stationed in Cheyenne before I came here, okay." I opened my mouth, and he said, "Zip it smarty pants, I know I tell everyone I ran an NSA facility. And that's true. I just had a stint in Cheyenne between the NSA and Bagram. It's pretty classified. There's a lot of money going into the mountain though, and some Congress-people in the know want some kind of oversight, you feel me? Grassley and that crew. And by a lot of money, I mean the program's running up into the billions at this point."

"So they're definitely running something other than training and deep space telemetry in there, huh." I muttered to myself to think, but I knew he wouldn't reply. As of now, I couldn't know anything; I wouldn't be able to until I got there. I looked at him. "So why not get one of the nuclear program folks to handle it? ISPA? Even SPO, really, it might be under their purview."

"A few reasons. I recommended you, and my word carried a lot of weight in this case, since I worked there." His slow Alabama accent matched his wink perfectly, the flirt. "But I recommended you because you're a pretty good shot, you roll with ridiculous things, and you're flexible when it comes to finishing the mission instead of following the rules, and knowing when someone made the right call." He shrugged, and he fiddled some more with his water cap; I hadn't seen him this fidgety for a long time. "I told Mr. Far that, and it came down to you and one of the auditors in ISPA. But the ISPA guy's former military, and we want it to be very clear that the results of this audit aren't colored by favoritism to old friends or the uniform."

"Okay, I suppose that makes…some sense." I made a face. Some sense, but still very odd. "Why would me being a good shot have anything to do with an audit? How dangerous is this, exactly, because I certainly didn't have to shoot when I went to the Middle East."

"Never know. Better to have it than not." Andrew stuck the cap on his water and stood up. "When you get there, you'll probably want to scream at someone about the whole thing. Feel free to call whenever." He smiled at me, opened the office door, and sauntered out.

Ridiculous.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I stood in the airport and tried hard not to be cranky. Sometimes, though, the best of intentions couldn't get me through a meeting with this team, even on bluetooth. And they had brought their equally frustrating lawyer. I stood in line at the airport Starbucks and listened to the lawyer, Ay-hole Jackson (not to be confused with Okay-ish Jackson, who was also a lawyer and not actively a jerk), argue with one of the newer auditors on the team about whether an infrastructure survey fulfilled competitive procedure requirements. She hadn't yet lost her enthusiasm for a fight; it was tiring at six in the morning.

I decided I probably wasn't required in the conversation for at least another five minutes, and stuck them on mute. I ordered a black coffee when I got to the front of the line; such a rip off. Starbucks was a pain, and also the only place I could get coffee for the next three hours, so I would suck it up, pay the exorbitant prices, and deal. The boy at the counter asked me if I wanted cream and sugar as in my ear, the auditor explained to the lawyer that nowhere in the law does it actually define competitive procedures, and that it was left to the discretion of the Secretaries concerned as to what those entailed. I contemplated dying, and how convenient it would be right now, told the kid I did not in fact want cream and sugar, and paid for my coffee. The lawyer rebutted that while that might be the case, auditors were allowed to use professional judgement to determine what was acceptable. I paused in putting the lid on my coffee and inserted myself in the conversation again.

"Look, Jackson, if you want us to write a memo or a report to the Director of Navy REPO about this so they rewrite the law, you need to put your opinion in writing." I put the blessed mute button back on as Jackson hemmed and hawed; lawyers only write opinions for you if you sat on them, and sometimes not even then.

The meeting – which, god, I shouldn't even be on! These people weren't my team! – wrapped up pretty quick after that. Hallelujah. I stared at my paper coffee cup and wished for a dog to scratch. Dogs made everything better. Mornings were usually okay; I got in at 5:30 on an average day, and had a few hours of quiet to myself. Well, once I got my own office, that is; when I had been a junior auditor, a woman named Liz sat in one of the cubes behind me and called her friends or her husband or her kids at 6 in the morning. I didn't miss those days.

No, the morning wasn't the real problem; the real problem now was that I had no idea what I was getting into. And I had gotten the short shaft today in seating. My ticket was for a center seat.

Really it was the seat thing.

What can you do.

I sipped my coffee and scrolled through my phone, looking at the website for Cheyenne Mountain and NORAD, which loaded perfectly on my phone, of course. They didn't tell me anything I didn't already know: the government was bad at designing mobile layouts, if they bothered to make the effort; the public face of NORAD and Cheyenne was apparently at least in part a pack of lies; and whoever designed the site for Cheyenne Mountain hadn't remembered to add a sub-title on the page itself. Classic. None of these things were particularly surprising.

Other than these incredibly useful pieces of information and what Christopher had told me, I didn't know anything at all. Well, not strictly true. I had been informed by Mr. Far before I left that I would be signing approximately 83 NDAs. Which was fine, I didn't need my wrist, I guess. I wondered idly if I could file disability if I got carpal tunnel signing NDAs, or if that was a right I had signed away when I got my clearance; I didn't recall reading it, but then the fine print had been pretty small.

When the attendants called my flight 15 minutes later, I put my phone away, drank the dregs of my coffee, and stepped into the unknown. Well. Into some plane on the tarmac at Reagan next to a fat guy. But it was practically similar.

* * *

The flight had been pretty painless, all told, though the baggage claim had been the same stampede of humanity as ever off a red-eye. I snagged my suitcase off the carousel and lugged it for the doors; I was looking forward to some fresh air. I pulled out my work phone once I got outside. Three emails, two of which wanted me to do something. I was on TDY out of the state, I could answer emails later. God's gift to auditor-kind, was TDY. The third was from someone named Siler; I opened that one, since it didn't look like a traffic notice or yet another memo that the internal file systems were down.

Siler's email informed me that a car would be waiting for me outside my terminal. I blinked down at the outdated Blackberry. Usually, I would just get a taxi, and I had been to Cheyenne Mountain before, but okay. I could deal.

I only had to look through the crowd for a minute or two before I saw a sign with my name on it, held by a short man in an Air Force uniform. Alright then. I nodded at him, he nodded at me, and we met in the middle. All very civilized.

I surveyed the man; it was mutual. I saw a Master Sergeant, a little sleepy looking, glasses. He didn't smell bad and he didn't look like he hated my guts on sight, which at this point in my career was sufficient. He finished looking me over and stuck out his hand. "Ms. Sabo?"

I grinned at him, a bit, and waved my hand – occupied with my Blackberry and my carry-on – at him. My other hand held my suitcase. No handshakes to be had here, at the moment. "It's more of a 'z' sound. Szabo." I transferred my horrible phone into my bag, and grabbed his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sgt. Siler." Firm handshake. Good.

After the usual pleasantries – good morning, how was your flight, thanks for coming – we walked to the Sergeant's car. It was, of course, government issue. Even had the "For Official Use Only" plates and everything.

"You know Sergeant," I said as I threw my suitcase in the trunk, "I could have taken a taxi and met you on base. Not that I don't appreciate the ride, or anything. I'm just wondering."

"You're the first auditor we've had out here, Ms. Szabo." He pronounced it right, this time. My Blackberry chimed in my bag; I must have forgotten to turn off the sound. Whoops. "I decided to meet you before you get on base."

"Get a feel for the land and all that?" I grinned at him a little, but I already knew it was my "okay I get it, we all know the IG is not welcome here, you don't have to pretend this hard" look. Well, I tried. Oh well.

"Sure." He smiled at me; his look didn't look quite so well-worn as my own version of the customer service face, but yeah. Auditors weren't welcome here. Well. Hopefully they would have decent coffee on base. I could tell I was gonna need it.

* * *

Jack O'Neill glared at his coffee. It was relatively inoffensive, and looked…fine, which could be bad, since it had just shown up at his elbow and who knew who brought it or what they could have done to it. Not him; he certainly didn't. Know or bring it. Carter could have put some salt in it for revenge for the last time he messed up an experiment in her lab, not that it was his fault he needed rescuing right at that time; he'd try to consider her data points next time he was abducted by sentient plants. Or Daniel could be grouchy about something or other he said about anthropology, and who knew what he might do to an innocent cup of coffee to even the score. So yeah, Jack stared at the coffee. It was too early for this and his brain didn't need to be on yet, so coffee it was. Coffee. Cofffffeeeee. Kind of a weird word, coffee. Came from Arabic. Very pretty language, but-

Carter threw a pencil into his earlobe. Jack yelped and transferred his glare from the coffee cup to her; she rolled her eyes. "Sir, it's just coffee. From the mess. I brought it. It's fine." Damn, she was psychic.

Considering everything that went on around here, that was less of a joke that it would have been, once upon a time. Jack gave this thought due consideration as he slugged back the cup.

"So why am I here at 7:30, Carter? Remind me."

Carter glared at him. Ha. Got her. No one should be this composed this early if they weren't in a warzone.

"The auditor, sir. She's coming today. You remember? We've had at least three briefings where she was mentioned, emails, a memo, multiple conversations? Her?" Hoo boy, someone wasn't thrilled the auditors were in the house. And sure, Jack remembered.

Not that he read his emails, if they weren't marked urgent; he must be at least three years behind on all his mandatory training. Whatever would he do without the reasonable accommodation training? How could he possibly do his job without knowing what types of desk chair he could apparently get the government to pay for if his back hurt? The Air Force certainly didn't know how he did it; they kept sending emails about it. So yeah, he didn't read emails anymore. Or take surveys.

The memo…that one he must have genuinely missed.

But the IG coming to town? That had been the talk of the SGC for the last month. And of the actual command team, though nothing had been finalized yet.

"Morning Jack, Sam." Daniel wandered in the room, looking both half asleep and half lost. No one really liked the mornings around here, it seemed. He clutched a cup of coffee, probably at least half sugar and cream, in his hand, and…a rock in the other.

"Oh yeah her. Morning Daniel. You and your rock having a good time over there?" Daniel had slumped in his seat staring at the featureless grey of the briefing room table as if it held a Rosetta Stone to help him translate his rock.

"No. Hey Jack, why is there only one person coming? Didn't you say the IG works in teams?" Jack stared at him.

"Seriously Daniel? The auditor? Start with the rock instead. No one wants to talk about our personal IRS people."

Daniel blinked, shoving his glasses up his face with the hand that held the rock. "IRS? I still don't know how this works. You don't pay them anything, do you?"

Jack grinned at the resident linguist. "You were at the same meetings I was. And there was a memo. And some emails. Didn't you read them?"

Daniel stared at him with all the dignity available to a man who was still holding a rock. "I don't read emails from here if they aren't marked urgent."

Jack glanced at Carted out of the corner of his eye. She had on her poker face. Fine, spoil sport.

"Nah, the IG comes in and tells you if you're running things according to the RULES. If you aren't, they write nasty reports, and Congress gets them and tries to shut you down. We don't pay them anything." He thought for a second, then tried again. "I mean, the government pays them, because they're DoD civilians. We don't. But they're like the IRS anyway. No one is happy when they show up, and they're intrusive. Now, rock."

"They found it on P3X-713. It has some hieroglyphics that looks pretty promising, they mention something about an energy source. I've been here all night translating. But Jack, only one person is coming? This base'll eat her alive."

Carter looked up from the report she was typing on her computer. "Maybe she's been given the equivalent of punishment detail? Who knows. There must be something else though. She's doing a quick contract audit, right?" Sam glanced at the men; they looked at her blankly. She very pointedly did not roll her eyes and continued. "On the iris. Someone whistleblew on the contractor. There wouldn't really be a reason for her to come here and be read on to the whole program; you could look at the iris on paper and probably answer whatever questions you need without ever stepping foot on this base. Could be Maybourne or the CIA are muscling in. Or someone else." She turned to Jack. "Sir, do you know anything about this? Has General Hammond told you anything?" The look was very clear. She knew full well he knew something, and he was going to spill. Jack took a gulp of his coffee and smiled his most charming smile.

She did not look charmed. She looked grumpy. Fine.

"Yeah, I know something. But we'll see if it works out. We have to meet her first."

Carter subsided, rolled her eyes at him, and went back to her report. Which was probably on a subject he could only understand with three Ph.D.s. Daniel, on the other hand, wasn't bound by the chain of command, and stared at him over his coffee cup.

"Leave it Daniel. It will all become clear with time."

Daniel stared at him. "I've always found it very impressive how you manage to keep a straight face and make all those wavy hand motions like they actually do anything for a conversation."

Carter laughed at them both.


End file.
